Shade Ombre, the Gambler
by Shade Ombre
Summary: Soon, the town of Happy Tree will be host to a large international poker tournament, with the prize to kill for. And one man may just do that...Shade Ombre. Soon, with lives and reputations at stake, and the cost rising every second, it is now down to Pop, of all people, to stop the cat boy, and perhaps save the money, before it's too late.


Chapter One:

A Hit in the Alley Way.

The young man stood in the icy, pouring rain as he kept an eye on the building across from him. He had been watching the place for the entire past hour, waiting for the exactly right time. The right time for when he could put his plan into action. This was probably the most important part of his plan. But…the man that he needed had not shown his face yet.

The man himself seemed to be slight of build, with a sharp suit and matching crimson tie being his only protection from the bitter rain, although he chose not to notice it. The man also wore a black trilby with a pearl white band complimenting it nicely. The man didn't really care for it, but it helped keep his well-groomed hair dry in the unpredictable weather that plagued the town. Finally, a coal black scarf wrapped itself around his neck, offering little protection from anything at all, although the man liked it.

With unlit cigarette in his mouth, he glanced down briefly at the violin case that was stood at his feet. His smirk grew into a smile. He was going to try it out tonight, even if it wasn't really necessary. He glanced back to the building across the street, and his smile fell slightly.

The entire building was modest, not really like the uptown buildings that the man was used to seeing when he went about. The place had large front windows, which held torn signs for what was being sold there, during the day. The simple stuff. Cheap food that felt like crushed glass was used as a main ingredient. The fruit juices that felt like they'd been mixed with a good helping of paint stripper. The usual stuff that was sold to unsuspecting people just so that the owner could make a real quick dime. But….it was at night that the place actually got interesting. At night, the place came to life. At night, the place became a speakeasy. The alcohol was ready and willing, the back rooms became filled with down on their luck gamblers who lost their money quicker than greased lightning. The girls also became slightly less…tame here, with the show girls and the flappers and all that nonsense. The man could not stand it.

And frankly, the man had had well enough of these places. He had seen one too many spring up on the streets of New York City, many looking at least slightly run down in their appearance, probably to keep the mulligans there from taking over the place. But…this place looked well beyond run down…It looked like it should have been pulled down long before the war….

The smirk regained itself after he saw a familiar person enter the building.

The person was lithe and wore a long trench coat that was frayed at the bottom and worn at the elbows. A fedora with a dark green band shielded his dark green hair from the elements. He was one of those types of people that one could spot in a crowd from a distance and immediately know who they were. His name…Shifty. And tonight is a good night for the man waiting for him. Shifty seems to have been about the towns other…locations like this, and was staggering slightly as he moved through the doors of the building. And, he was missing his younger brother, Lifty. It would certainly make things easy for the man.

He removed the cigarette from his mouth, and discarded it into the gutter. Smiling broadly, he leant down and picked up the violin case with his leather covered hands. Picking it up, he began to walk across the street while rain continued to batter the town in its relentless fashion. The smirk on his face was growing wider.

He opened to door quietly, as not to draw that much attention to himself. He looked around the place quickly. It was full of people; Most of them look as if they had just pulled their sorry selves off the street, eager to drink any poison that was given to them, if it would help them get through the day. The people here…they seemed to be acting out of their class. Acting like the old boys down on the east coast, although these people were no better than dogs. Some people should really know there place….It all made the man sick, seeing these people acting better than life had born them to lead.

He got past his disgust, and sauntered nonchalantly over to the bar, were several patrons had slumped themselves against it in a drunken stupor. The bartender was serving the coffin varnish to any of the patrons that still remained on their feet and held their money loosely.

The bartender himself was a large, portentous man, who looked as if he had seen better days in his youth. A large scar ran down his face, and the way he moved behind the bar suggested someone with a crippled leg at the least. But, he remained cheerful, laughing with the drunken men and women there, and making it obvious that he had been helping himself to the bootleg liquor that he was shipping on to these poor saps.

The man sighed, and moved closer to the bar, before leaning onto it, waiting for the bartender to take notice of a new face amongst the rest of these bland and uninteresting characters. Sure enough, he was soon noticed, and the bartender soon staggered his way over to the man.

"Welcome! It's always good to see a new face in my fine class establishment – "the way the he spoke confirmed his drunken nature, and it also told the man something else. The bartender was Irish. The man's right eye twitched slightly at the annoying, grating and heavy accent. The bartender continued – "and I can tell you that I sell only the best liquor here. So, what'll be your poison, guv'nor?" The man's eye twitched again, already hating the bartender.

"I'll have a bottle of brown plaid, Mack. And a side of information, if you be so kind." The man said, his voice a hissing whisper. The bartender nodded and went over to the get the drink.

While he was waiting, the man looked around the place, looking for Shifty. In amongst the thick smoke, dancing vamps and flappers, and off duty corrupt feds, he was now where to be found. This annoyed the man a lot. Now he had to rely on the drunken words of the slob serving him drinks. He turned his nose up at the people here; if any of his friends knew that he had come to this place….he shuddered.

He was taken away from his judgmental observations when the bartender almost slammed the whisky glass on the table, and slid a bottle of cheap scotch towards the man. The bartender leaned on the bar, and began speaking to the man again.

"So, what information do ya require?" the smirk returned to the man.

"Would you kindly tell me where the man wearing the fedora with the green band went? I need to see him." Leaning back a bit, the bartender eyed the man suspiciously.

"I don't know from nothing 'bout any man with a fedora. Sorry, can't help ya." The bartender replied, to which the man grew annoyed.

"Cut the bushwa, you useless futz. I saw the man enter this place. Now, you are going to tell me where he went, or the world will not be a pretty sight for you." The man threatened. The bartender stood up, a look of pure anger and rage on his face at the threat that the man just made.

"Hey! I don't take threats from no good street life like you. Now you're gonna scram with your tail between your legs before I get some of my men here to take you out and teach you some manners, okay? So beat it!" the bartender turned away from the man and began to walk away when a pair of cold, leather gloved hands grabbed him and pulled him back to the bar.

He was looking straight into the man's rage filled eyes and those eyes bored deep with into his mortal soul. For the first time in the bartenders life, he actually felt scare for himself. The man showed no signs of letting up on his anger, when he spoke, his voice a cold, deliberate whisper that sent chills down the bartender's spine.

"You will tell me where the man went, or so help me; I will take you out into the back alley, before ripping out your god damn heart and shoving it down your throat, and then I will torch your squalid little establishment with all your profits in it, Capiche? Now, I know your repulsive little form will come back to life, but I doubt your place, or profits, will. So, care to tell me where the man is?" While he was speaking, the man had drawn a short knife out of inside of his suit jacket, and held it to the bartender's throat. The bartender began to shake.

"H-He went into the t-third back room…o-on the left….please d-don't hurt me…." The bartender babbled. The man turned his head slightly away from the panicking man, deep in thought.

"Thank you. You've been…useful, for once…stupid futz. I'll be going to pay him a visit then. Just keep in mind my warning…" he trailed off as he let the barkeep go with a forceful shove backwards. He was making his way to walk off, when he turned to the bartender again. "…and that scotch? I'll be back to collect it. Just put it behind the bar for me. Oh, and I'll have it on the house. Of course, you don't mind, do you, Mack?" The bartender just shook his head, still scared at the man.

The man smiled, and walked his way to the back area of the building, towards the back rooms that the gamblers had held themselves up in. In this area of the building, the only people here were the old men, people who were sick to death of the new generation that the decade had swept away with it. These people just drank themselves half blind, before shouting abuse at anyone who would give them time. Frankly, the man hated them as much as he hated the people stepping above their classes. These people should have respect. And they should be quiet and not heard.

Soon, the man stood outside the door that Shifty was supposed to be behind. Sucking air between his teeth, the man decided to see what it was like on the other side. He decided to listen in on what was going on. He pressed his ear to the door, and listen.

Nothing.

The man stopped. Either this meant that everyone on the other side of the door was passed out, or they weren't there. A doubt at the back of his mind told him that the bartender could have lied to him. He scowled, and shook the thought from his conscience. He needed to check.

He got up, and stepped away from the door. He pulled the black scarf of his over the lower half of his face, covering up to just under his eyes, before pulling down the trilby to obscure his eyes. Everything would be ruined if anyone recognized him now. Slowly, he opened the door with his free hand.

He saw Shifty, slouched over the poker table, card hand in one, bottle of cheap Bolshevik vodka in his other. He also saw that a similar fate had befallen the other four undesirables that were sharing the pathetic game. The man turned his nose up again, looking at all the empty bottles surrounding the table, as well as several spilt bottles and a few still smoldering cigars. It was all disgusting to the man. But, he needed Shifty.

Striding over to the drunken man, he roughly grabbed him and pulled him out of his chair. He woke up, if only slightly.

"What-…." He tried to say, before the man put a gloved hand over his mouth. He was too drunk to try and struggled, and was helpless dragged out of the door, and out the exit of the building, away from prying eyes, in the alley. The man roughly threw Shifty against the alley wall. Shifty groaned, rubbing his head where he hit the wall.

"What…What the hell do you think your playin' at?" he slurred, only to receive a swift kick to the stomach from the man. He went on his hands and knees, coughing, while the man carefully place the violin case on a large wooden crate that took up a large section of the dark and dank alley way. He unclipped the clasps of the case, and opened it, revealing what was inside to him: A Thompson Sub-machine gun. In pieces, main gun strapped to one side, butt, ammo and fore grip strapped on the other side.

The man smiled a cruel smile, while he began to piece the gun quickly together. Shifty was unaware of what the man was doing. Soon, while Shifty was still crawling in the dirt of the alley, the man had his completed gun. He slotted the drum magazine in with a fine click, before readying the gun for firing. He turned to Shifty.

"Dear Shifty….care to divulge some information to me?" he hissed. Shifty just looked up at him.

"Go to h-hell, you bloody bastard." Shifty spat, only to get another kick, but this time to the face. He laid on the ground, spitting out teeth in-between coughs and curses.

"That was a bad idea, Shifty. Now. You will tell me about the international poker competition that's coming up in the next few days. Who is competing?" his voice was lower, as he gestured at the squirming man on the floor with the Thompson. Shifty groaned.

"A-All right….I'll tell ya what I know. For the people….12 competing….at the Grand Snake Casino…..A limey called James…..a kraut doctor of some sort….a Japanese or Chinese bloke…..an American called Nathan…..a frog…..and…and a commie….That's all I know…."

"Right, right…anything else? I mean, such as the prize?" the man hissed as he smiled.

"I-I don't know e-exactly…" Shifty began to stammer, causing the man's smile to slip into a displeased smile.

"Not the right answer – "he said, as he fired the Thompson just inches above Shifty's head, peppering the wall with bullets. Diving to the cold ground, Shifty began shaking with fear. This man was not messing around.

"God…P-please don't kill me! I-I'll tell you! I'll tell you!" Shifty cried. The man smile returned quickly to his face as he saw Shifty lying on the floor begging for his life. He loved doing this to people, not that he would ever admit it.

"Well? Start telling. I am not graced with the virtue of patience, but I am graced with the sin of wrath. So, start talking, and I'll see if I can allow you some compassion." There was a deliberate and harsh mocking tone to the way he spoke now, as if Shifty was no better than a common gutter animal. Shifty looked up at the man, although he was unable to see the man's face. After remaining quiet for a few moments, he began to babble again.

"1 million aces! A million aces! Please don't kill me!" He shouted, causing the man to cringe at his obnoxious voice. Kicking Shifty in the chest sharply, the man spat:

"And at what time will the proceedings start?" his voice was growing slightly angry, but he allowed the smile to continue gracing his face. Shifty almost immediately began speaking as the words left the man's mouth.

"One P.M, August the seventh, Nineteen hundred and twenty-five!" he screamed, as if he had learned the date of by heart. The man paused for a second, just staring at the pathetic remnants of the person in front of him. For a fleeting moment, he felt a twang of pity in his cold heart. But then, it was gone. He smirked. And raised the Thompson.

"That's all I needed, Shifty, old boy. Now, if we have no further business…" He trailed off. Shifty looked at him, and suddenly realized what the man was going to do. He tried to call out:

"No – Please - !" before a hail of bullets tore through his flesh, and a before long, he was nothing but a bloodied mess on the alley floor. The man just stood there, looking at the violent carnage that he had just turned Shifty into. It made him smile wider still. He walked back to the empty violin case and slowly began to take the still smoking Thompson to pieces, and repacking it into the velvet lined case. He took his time, on occasion looking back at the corpse that was still leaking crimson liquid all over the alley. He sighed, slotting the main part of the gun back into the violin case. His night was almost over, for now. Just one last thing…

He tilted the trilby back, and slowly pulled the scarf down back around his neck. He smiled, and entered back through the back door of the sleazy speakeasy again. The patrons were either still talking, or had left to find a place to sleep for the night. Thankfully, the bar was free of the drunk patrons from before, and the bartender was still there, serving out drinks and idle anecdotes to anyone who was not turning a deaf ear to him. Slowly, the man meandered his way to the bar.

"Hello, Mack. Miss me?" he hissed at the bartender as he drew closer, bearing a sick smile and false pretenses of all being right with the world. The bartender just turned, and went pale when he saw the man. He gulped, and tried to smile. He just couldn't. Not at this man.

"H-Hello…" he managed to stammer as the man lent on the bar, his cold eyes looking straight through him.

"So…Have you still got the scotch that I ordered? Or did you forget…" he trailed off, his hand idly tracing patterns across the worn wood of the counter. The bartender nodded slowly, still looking at the man.

"Well…where is it?" the man asked, almost spitting his words. The bartender nervously shook as he reached under the counter, and drew out the welcoming bottle of cheap, but alright, scotch. The man smiled as he gently took it from the terrified Irish man. The bartender tried to stammer;

"W-What did y-you do to h-him?" he swallowed again after his sentence, as the man looked up, and the smile grew wider.

"Oh…this and that. I just decided to ask a few questions…before writing him a prose…with the Chicago typewriter…" he laughed the final part, much to the bartenders horrified look that plastered his face.

"S-Sweet Jesus…" he whispered.

"Any way…I'll be going now Mack. Be seeing you around. Soon, if I may say." And with that, the man began to walk, bottle in hand, out the door of the establishment.

"W-Wait!" Shouted the bartender after the man, to have him paused in the threshold, his head turned slightly to the man.

"What? More business…Or maybe you want me to step up on that threat?"

"N-No…I just wanted to a-ask…What'll be t-the name of the d-devil?" he stammer. A wide smirk grew on the man's face, and he spoke in a hiss to the bartender;

"Call him…Shade. Shade Ombré." And with that, he walked out into the cold night air.


End file.
